


Drabbles + Oneshots from the 'Parallel' universe

by Volts



Series: Destiny's Children [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Parent Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26729017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Drabbles and Oneshots set within and after 'Parallel', the first work in this series where Jaskier adopts Dara and trains him up in the bardic arts.I'd read Parallel first - this probably makes sense without but this is the spin-off.Chapter 1: Jaskier has a teeny-tiny freak out over his new found guardianship. Dara has a bath.Chapter 2: Jaskier and Dara attend a wedding and Dara finds The O N E. (07/10/20)Chapter 3: Jaskier and Dara practice rivalry in Cidaris. Anita Pankratz reconnects with her brother. (29/10/2020)Chapter 4: Jaskier gets bard-napped. (7/11/2020)Chapter 5: Glod and Dara rehearse a play. Jaskier's getting old. (20/11/2020)Chapter 6: Dara has two emotional days. Jaskier "dad's". (05/01/2020)
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Dara (The Witcher)
Series: Destiny's Children [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933993
Comments: 67
Kudos: 142





	1. Maribor

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier has a teeny-tiny freak out over his new found guardianship. Dara has a bath.

Jaskier, admittedly, is having a small, teeny tiny, freak out in the back of this Mariborian tailors shop. He hadn’t really planned on this. He, obviously, couldn’t have left the boy in the wood.

It was a genius idea, he’d never had an apprentice before, but the practicalities were now prodding at Jaskier’s stomach like a moth infested cave.

He’d fed Dara, the boy was all limbs, clearly in the growing-too-fast-for-anyone-to-keep-track stage of adolescence and needed the nutrients.

And he was a quick study on the lute, clearly.

Now he just needed to look the part. And be warm, the clothes he had been wearing looked nice enough but not practical for traversing the continent.

It was one thing teaching students once a year, quite another to be in sole guardianship.

Eh, he’d manage, how hard could it be?

The first thing was to argue with this tailor, who kept insisting Dara come in for a fitting. It _would_ help things go quicker but Jaskier wasn’t about to make Dara do anything he didn’t want. The tailor had the measurements, Jaskier had quite the eye if he did say so himself, and could either like it or look the trade.

Jaskier picked out a blue-grey fabric and one in a sort of bronze and amber. His own clothes could wait till they reach the next city, hopefully Oxenfurt.

X

Jaskier doesn’t come to Maribor often but it does have the best perfumery in Temeria. Dara seems rather startled at the variety of perfumes, soaps and shampoos.

“We had rose soap. And lavender. And the one for laundry,” Dara admits when Jaskier asks his favourite.

Now that won’t do, this boy is going to have the best bath coin can buy.

Jaskier all but has to force him to choose a soap for himself whilst Jaskier spends a few moments in detailed discussion on the type of shampoo that would work best for Dara’s hair type. When they get back to the Inn, Jaskier orders a hot bath, dumps the water full with bath salts and tells Dara in specific detail which soaps are to be used and when, before drawing the screen to give him some privacy.

He’s going to embroider flowers on Dara’s new shirt cuffs.

When Dara gets out the bath and dresses he looks more relaxed that Jaskier’s ever seen. Jaskier gets a jolt of fondness through his stomach when he faceplants on the bed almost immediately. With a small chuckle, Jaskier pulls the blanket over him.

“Goodnight, Dara.”

Maybe he won’t fuck this up, just one day at a time.


	2. A True Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Dara attend a wedding and Dara finds The O N E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 everyone. A lot longer than expected and written in about 2 hours. It's set sometime after Parallel.

The day was warm and sunny, bids tweeted in their trees, clouds meandered across the sky. It was a perfect sunny day.

In a picturesque hamlet, not too far from Vaelburg, a wedding was taking place. The reception was loud, the guests merry, the happy couple oblivious to all but each other.

The music … well the music…

It was with a very quick walk Dara exited the marquee through the crowds of people. Very, very, quickly. Shouts of revenge would soon follow, he knew.

He just needed to find Jaskier and they could go. Ah, there he was, surprisingly out of the limelight.

“Jaskier,” he hissed at his mentor who was flirting with the groom. (The groom at the stables, not the groom at the wedding they would hopefully soon be hurrying from).

“What, are you okay? You look somewhat -” Jaskier’s eyes shifted to over Dara’s shoulder and broke into a grin at the sight, “- stressed… quick exit?”

“Please.” There were no angry shouts. Yet. The adrenaline was rippling under Dara’s skin, in the moment he had felt so bold, now he felt rather weak at the knees.

“Well, I thank you good sir, if I had a horse, I’d stable her with you. As it is my apprentice and I must be leaving,” he took up the man’s hand, kissed it and together he and Dara walked quickly until they rounded the hedgerow, then they broke into a sprint.

They ran until they made it to the river.

“Next boat shouldn’t be too far away,” Jaskier panted, consulting the noticeboard.

Dara just groaned; he had a stitch. Why did he have a stitch, he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast?

“Okay. So… what did you do to him? because the look on his face!!” Jaskier laughed, waving his hands wide and perching himself on the mooring post.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Come on!” Jaskier cajoled.

“Okay, so I did… but I didn’t know his cousin was the bride! How could I have?” Explained why he’d been asked to play twice, the still bitter part of his brain piped up. The image of the-father-of-the-bride’s mutinous face would haunt him for ever more.

“But honestly, what happened? I grant that getting thrown out of places is standard for yours truly, but I had hoped to teach you better.”

“No, you said it was a hazard of the job! That a bard was _supposed_ to be a master orator able to argue their way out of any argument!” and then duck if things got violent.

“Well, possibly. But that wasn’t arguing, young fellow, that was a pie in the face! A _magnificent_ pie, I grant you but what had that red-haired gentlemen done to offend so?” Mirth was dancing around Jaskier’s eyes even as he tried to keep his voice serious.

“It was a custard tart actually,” Dara sulked, rubbing at a bit of said custard off his sleeve.

“An insult to pastry,” Jaskier drawled drily, faux offended, “Those tarts were heavenly.” He raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms, trying to look authoritative.

“He was … the one,” Dara ground out, and sighed burying his head in his hands.

“No!”

Dara nodded.

“You’re sure?” Jaskier looked over the moon, “Tell me all?” and he took out his notebook.

“Well, I was taking my break…”

_Dara stood awkwardly by the dessert table, lute carefully stored on his back, unsure of whether he was allowed to eat any of the food. He and Jaskier had played their repertoire whilst the reception had been in full swing but now there was a troupe of dancers from Skellige performing and they had brought their own band. Jaskier had clapped him on the back and sloped off to do whatever Jaskier did when he was alone. Dara had never been to a wedding before. The happy couple looked, well, happy. He tried out a few ‘hums’ of melody, he knew Jaskier would ask him to compose a song based upon today._

_He could do something about the birds dressing in their finery or the flowers blooming just to watch the bride walk past, or was that too trite?_

_Jaskier said it often didn’t matter as long as it came from the heart._

_“Have you been playing the lute long?” a voice appeared at his elbow from human about his age and only a little shorter._

_“Uh, about 7 months?” Closer to 8 really. “How long have you been playing the – the dulcimer?” Dara thought that’s what the flat wooden instrument was, this person had been hitting it’s strings with small hammers in accompaniment to Dara and Jaskier’s performance._

_“4 years, I’m graduating Oxenfurt next year, already courts are vying for my custom!” and he preened, “If you really, really, practice I might tutor you one day. As a thank you for today.”_

_With gritted teeth, and clenched fists, Dara managed a grimace, “I already have a tutor, The Bard Jaskier. He’s an Oxenfurt Professor.”_

_The fellow started, “A – A professor? Well he didn’t look like one! Oh, I remember him now, he knows **nothing**. I had him in 1st year and he told me my playing was lifeless – you heard me today I can play as fast as anyone! You’d be better off ditching him, Dano, was it?”_

_“ **Dara**_ **,** _and he probably meant it lacked soul. Passionless. Without emotion, music is just a person making noise with bits of catgut or horsehair.”_

_“Explains why you missed 2 notes in Meletile’s Spring, I was going to be a good friend and not mention them but with a tutor like that…” and he scoffed._

_“ **We**_ _are **not** friends,” Dara scowled._

_“No. We’re not. Now run along. **I’ve**_ _been asked to play an encore, you and your professor **haven’t**. Have you heard ‘The Scourge of Cidaris’? I’ll dedicate it to you. Everyone says its about a siren who lures everyone in the town to its death with its fearful voice, but really it’s about defeating a mediocre troubadour who’s music deafens all those who hear it.”_

_And Dara saw red, or rather yellow._

“ … and that’s when I pushed the custard tart in his face.” Dara said, flushed with embarrassment.

Jaskier was strangely silent.

Dara looked up.

“You- you aren’t _too_ angry, are you?” Jaskier hadn’t gotten angry at him yet but …

“ _’The Scourge of Cidaris’_?” Jaskier asked faintly, looking strangely wan in his deep purple suit.

“Yeah?”

“The little bastard!” Jaskier exclaimed a small, offended, laugh bursting out, jumping too his feet, “I’ll go back and break his hammers, that jumped up little – oh but you did wonderfully! Next time maybe tell him to ‘fuck off’ - eat the tart! You have chosen your nemesis, the rival of all rivals, well, dear student!” and he pulled a paper bag of boiled sweets from his pocket and handed them Dara.

They were lemon, Dara’s favourite.

“But, what -?”

“ ‘ _The Scourge of Cidaris’_ I wrote that when I was, what, 24 maybe and pissed off at Valdo Marx. He’d just gotten his court position and every letter I got from him he just _had_ to mention his new patron, very toe kissing. And, well, I’d just watched Geralt hunt a nest of Siren in Poviss so…” and he shrugged, “It was sort of a challenge, for Valdo. If he thought he was so important, so much better than everyone else, why not come and beat little old me at the next bardic event… I won by the way.”

And Dara, now understanding, laughed.

“We have to see where this fellow – did you get his name, I thought it was Gareth? Or was it Galbran? – is playing next, and you, my wonderful student, will beat him.”

“But he’s been playing for _4 years,”_ Dara protested, though he was already thinking of possible songs he could play. Maybe he could do two versions of the wedding song, one for the general public and one where the wedding was invaded by … some sort of horrible creature … and the _humble_ visitor saved the day.

Or was that too petty?

“Yeah, well, he’s spent his life playing the dulcimer for mediocre courts – transporting a Dulcimer isn’t as easy as a lute - whilst you have had almost a year playing for every type of public imaginable. Besides, I believe in you,” and with that heartwarming statement, that did not have Dara grinning from ear to ear, Jaskier hailed the oncoming barge going towards Roggeveen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it! If you have a prompt in this verse feel free to leave it, you never know it may inspire me! 
> 
> tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


	3. The Countess de Lettenhove (becomes an Auntie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three: Jaskier and Dara practice rivalry in Cidaris. Anita Pankratz reconnects with her brother. (29/10/2020)  
> Warning this chapter contains a brief mention of (book) canonical domestic assault.

Lady Anita Pankratz, Countess de Lettenhove, sat on the rocky beach of Cidaris sunning herself. She’d had a _very_ good morning. She’d negotiated a good import price for fine silk, an even better price for exported timber - for ship building- and she’d refused 4 proposals of marriage. She’d had 15 now in the 10 years since she’d become 18 and, much to her late father’s consternation, had flat out refused every single one. She’d been Countess for 4 years now and really enjoyed it. Her people were moderately happy, the war hadn’t touched them yet and neither had the Eternal Flame religion which was sweeping through Novigrad, well, like wildfire.

She breathes in the fresh salt air.  
Bliss.

  
There’s a busker, a musician, playing on the end of the pier.  
She always felt a strange sensation of guilt when she sees musicians. She likes music just fine, but she knows how awful her father was to her brother. Half-brother. Accepting him only when there had been no one else, until she’d been born - and even then he’d hoped for another boy.  
No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come back.  
She’d made an effort, since her father’s death, to make non-humans and half-humans more welcome in Lettenhove.

  
“Busker?” She called the musician over. He was a lanky boy with black curls tucked under a grey hat which matched his silvery bronze outfit.

  
“Uh, Milady?” He was carrying a lute.

  
“Do you know any songs by- “and what was the name her brother went by? “-Jaskier?”

  
“A great number, what would you prefer?”

  
“Not a love song,” she didn’t need that, he was her brother for Melitele’s sake, “Something - something about the sea.”

  
The busker, no Bard was a more appropriate title, nodded and started a song about a sea monsters creeping through the town and luring tavern goers to their watery graves until a hero saves the day, vanquishing the beast, freeing the townspeople and having a large party to celebrate. It was clearly a song the locals recognised because a crowd developed, and the Countess was forced to pack up her parisol and move to sit at an inn’s table on the harbour side. Her attendant went to get her a drink and sat, carefully watching the surroundings from a nearby bench.   
  


Anita is not really paying attention, the musician has moved on to other artists after receiving his applause, but then she sees a flash of deep maroon, a brunette fringe and eyes so brilliantly blue they’re hard to forget.

  
It’s Jaskier.

  
She almost expects a fight over this young bard singing one of Jaskier’s songs but instead her brother grins and says something which has him spreading his arms expansively. The young bard grins then caught her looking at them, his face falling slightly. He catches Jaskier’s attention and nods towards her, saying something to him quietly.   
Jaskier turns to her. His face does something complicated but ends in ‘anxiously bright’. He says something to the boy who nods and goes into the inn.

Jaskier came to her table, an air of performative levity to his step.

“Anita? You look well. Been in Cidaris long? Have you had their fish pie, it’s to die for?”

“Jaskier? Please sit,” she gestures to the stool opposite her.

“Uh, right.” he sits and immediately pours himself a glass of her wine. 

“So, what brings you here?” He asks, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Imports, exports, you?”

  
“Inspiration. Valdo is here and I’m trying to demonstrate exactly how rivalry, in the music world, works. Yesterday we kept The Wrecked Coracle up to 5 in the morning playing off each other. Barman made a killing and today I’m flusher than a – well,” he took a drink of wine, “You requested The Scourge of Cidaris? I cannot thank you enough. Now Valdo will have to respond to such slander, and on his own turf too! Dara played marvellously, drew quite a crowd.” He grinned excitedly.

Anita feigned interest and masked confusion, The Scourge of Cidaris was about a sea monster, wasn’t it? She decided to ask about the little she knew of her brother’s life, dear the gods she hated small talk, “Are you still seeing Vespula?” She was sure she’d heard he’d been in her company in Novigrad a few years ago.

“Vesp-? Oh, no. Uh, she threw all my things it of the window, years ago, and then hit me in the face with a frying pan. Well not me, per we - there was a Doppler - but it didn’t end well. I wasn’t exactly tactful with her - I certainly didn’t deserve physical violence but she had every right to throw out my things,” he finished miserably.

“Right. And how is your Witcher fellow?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he lied. He had the exact same tell as their younger sister Marya - not quite looking you in the eye and speaking a little too loudly. 

“Oh. Well. His loss?” Anita tried to console. She wasn’t that type of person.

“And how’s Lettenhove? Jewel of Redania, yet?”

“Good. Good. Doing business. Keeping our noses clean.”

“Great,” he sounded genuinely happy, if a little bitter, about Lettenhove’s success. Anita tries not to look at her brother’s rounded ears. Silence.

The boy, Dara, returns.

“I got 3, like you said.” He’s carrying a tray with 3 plates of fish pie, peas and potato balanced up on it. 

“Wonderful. Dara, this is the Countess de Lettenhove, my sister, Anita. Anita this is Dara, I’m teaching him all I know.”

He seems a little nervous.

Anita takes a second to look at the younger bard. He’s clearly an elf, or of elven heritage, hiding his ears beneath his hat, his eyes a little brighter brown than any humans, his limbs a little longer. Like her brother’s, Anita notes absently.

Like her brother’s...

Is this why Jaskier is so nervous? This Dara isn’t just a fellow bard but his son? 

True, they don’t much look alike, Dara’s features aren’t like Jaskier’s at all and his skin tone is widely different. But why else would Jaskier be anxious unless he wanted her approval?

Besides, she thinks, not all children are biological. Whether her brother is related to Dara by blood is immaterial.

“How do you do? I hope my brother is teaching you better sense than he has! Your lute playing earlier was lovely, you have a good voice.”

“Thank you,” he says, unsurely, eyes darting between her face and shoulder, not sure where to look. He sat down next to Jaskier and started on his own plate of food.

“I have perfect sense, thank you very much! And Dara’s talents only rival my own. We perform later in the market; we need to gather support for our showdown tomorrow, playing ‘The Scourge’ was a calculated genius,” Jaskier gently knocked his shoulder against Dara’s.

“Valdo won’t know what hit him!” Dara smiled, “Can I perform The Wedding and the Wyrm?”

“It would be an excellent debut! Dara’s been working very hard on it for months now. Tomorrow will be a bigger audience than we could hope for-” he turned to Dara, “-It’s up to you. We can wait a month if it’s not ready or-” he’s fretting slightly.

“I’m ready. _It’s_ ready. I’ll be fine, Jaskier.”

_Jaskier_ , not Father or Ada.

“Well. If you’re sure. _I_ think you’ll do wonderfully. Your chord progressions have come along perfectly and the metaphor- what?”

Dara’s laughing at him.

“Stop worrying! I’m. I’m going to go get us some of that apple tart - no I can pay-” he’s unsubtly trying to give the siblings more time alone. He’s not even finished his plate of food yet. Yeah, this is her brother’s son alright.

“Nonsense!” And Jaskier pushed coin into his hand, “I pay for the food and clothes, you know this. And shelter. Now hop it! I want as big a slice as they’ll serve you!”

And Dara laughed again, shaking his head as he walked away.

“Is he your son?” Anita asked bluntly as soon as the boy is out of earshot and her brother has taken a draught of ale. Watching him choke on it pleases her sisterly feelings.

“Melitele, Anita you can’t just-” he coughs again.

“Well?”

“Well what? Biologically? No. Aside from that, he is my apprentice,” he doesn’t sound especially convincing, “Fine, yes. As good as. I. I feel like my heart would fall out of my chest if anything were to happen to him - is that what parenting is?”

Anita shrugged. She had no children and never wanted any. Marya’s 2 year old twins were bad enough. But if anyone were to threaten them, she’d commit murder in a heartbeat.

“His parents’ were killed. He was living in a forest!” 

“So, you adopted him?” Anita clarified, taking a sip of wine.

Jaskier brightened, “Oh right! As my liege, I can petition you for an adoption order. Lady Lettenhove, as your humble citizen, I wish to adopt-”

She waves down his theatrics. 

“Alright, alright. Where should I send the paperwork to?”

“Uh, well, usually I’d say Oxenfurt but I’m avoiding there... Valdo lives here in Cidaris, that’d do, we may hate each other professionally but he can be a good egg. Or Priscilla - she’s taken up with a Baroness in Aedirn, I’ve got the address here somewhere...” he finds a scrawled address on a scrap of paper, “And we’ll be at the Winter Festival - it’s end of autumn actually - in Lyria and there’s a harvest festival in Angren that I never miss before that. Spirit day in Toussaint also...”

Anita spends the next few minutes squeezing concrete addresses out of her brother, rather than settling for - ‘The Heron, next to the brothel, or was that The Herring, on riverside. Or you could try the lute maker in-’ - because otherwise she might as well send a pigeon and hope it eventually flies into him. From what she can gather in the last few months he’s walked through most of Temeria and Redania, then taken a boat to the Redanian coast and sailed down to Cidaris. (Missing Lettenhove by only a pinch, she realised acutely - she’d taken much the same journey to get here only without the walking part).

They part after lunch, Anita leaving with half a dozen addresses she can send the adoption papers to and the apple tart recipe. She watches as Jaskier and Dara walk off to the marketplace to drum up support for their ‘momentous’ showdown, and shakes her head fondly.

*

When Anita arrives back in Lettenhove, on the first evening back before supper, she prepares the papers. She also makes a slight adjustment in her will, making sure Dara will get what any adopted or illegitimate nephew of a Countess, by her disowned half-brother, would. It’ll be about the same as what Maciej or Anna - Marya’s children – will receive (she’s left them possessions as well as money which wouldn’t be practical for a life on the road) more than enough to keep him settled. If she's lucky, if the war is over by then, they can expect an invitation to next years Yule celebrations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vespula is Dandelion's fiancée in The Eternal Flame (Sword of Destiny) she dumps him by chucking all his things out of the window, and later attempts to hit him with a frying pan.
> 
> Next chapter: We will meet Yennefer (drawing from the beginning of Blood of Elves which I am reading right now)


	4. Yennefer to the Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Jaskier gets bard-napped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Blood of Elves which is the basis of this chapter, all bits from the bard-napping bit are from the book. I only took this little bit from the book and this series will not be following book canon at all. I just wanted to use it as a springboard for mush. No seriously Jaskier and Dara have *emotions* here.

Getting kidnapped by Nilfgaard hadn’t been in the plan.

They’d strung him up from the rafters, after that dratted mage had cornered him and chased him through Madame Lantieri‘s brothel, and quizzed him incessantly for hours about Geralt’s whereabouts. Like he had any idea.

Luckily, Yennefer had floated in like an avenging angel and raised destruction upon his captors. He’d never liked her more.

Once they were walking free, and after Jaskier had thanked Yennefer profusely he said, “Not that I am not pleased - I am so grateful, so, so grateful - but I must find Dara. He was - well I left him near the inn.”

They’re wandering down the street. Jaskier and Dara had been planning on camping anyway, for the last time as winter crept up on them. They’d split the pay of their latest performance 2 ways - Jaskier had been prepared to spend his share in the brothel, he has savings for food, and Dara had been eyeing up a new winter coat in the market and a small metal tuning flute as well.

“Is he the apprentice, the one who handed around the bucket after the performance?”

Jaskier suppressed mocking her for her spying on him since it ultimately saved his life and instead nodded.

“They didn’t take him, did they?” he asked her worriedly.

“No. Why would they?” Jaskier fore-bore to explain Dara’s brief friendship with the Princess Cirilla - who knew who was listening – and, instead, focussed on finding him. 

“Let’s try by the signpost.” Dara wasn’t there. Worry and anxiety bubbled from Jaskier’s stomach up into his throat. He felt sick.

What if he’d been taken? He’d never forgive himself.

“Let’s try the hut.” 

It lay just on the edge of the wood and was abandoned. They began their way through ferns. Yennefer held up her hand to halt him. 

He stopped. There was a very slight rustling.

“Dara?”

“Jaskier?” Dara crawled out from where he’d been hiding behind a shrub and barrelled into Jaskier almost lifting him off his feet. When did he get so strong?

“Where were you? I heard the landlord say a mage had taken you - one of the brothel girls said so.” A, very light, punch pushes at Jaskier’s shoulder. He suppresses a wince; he’s surprised they weren’t dislocated. 

“I’m alright. Tip top. Yennefer rescued me,” he gestured to her. 

Dara eyes her distrustfully.

“Hold this,” and he hands first Jaskier then Yennefer his bracelet with the silver charm on it, watching carefully as the charm touches each of their skin.

“Well. Good. Thank you,” he says begrudgingly, then, “Is this _the_ Yennefer?”

“Uh-” Yennefer has her eyebrows raised as is smirking slightly at him, “Let’s get a fire going.”

Dara grins.

They build a fire and sit around it whilst a chicken rotates on a spit.

“Are you one of his ex-lovers? I’ve met Priscilla. And Valdo keeps sending me poetry books-”

“-his own poetry,” Jaskier grumbled, under his breath.

“- and the Countess de Stael pinched my cheeks and tried setting me up with her grandson.”

“Alec was nice,” Jaskier chipped in. 

Dara turned to him, nodding, “Yeah he was. But he’s in love with Thomas’s, who fancies Tabitha. Tabitha just wants to train parakeets,” he turns back to Yennefer, “It was very tragic. I’ve written a ballad about it.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, then. I heard your ballad about Geralt and I’s romance, Jaskier. Not the one you sang under the oak, the one about, what was it, my sugary lips?” She glared at him, mock questioningly. 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in my best frame of mind.” He quailed under her disapproval.

Yennefer sighed and began cutting up her food with her knife and fork. Dara raised his eyebrows and Jaskier shook his head, thinking of Geralt.

“Are they safe?”

“As far as I know,” Yennefer said, shrugging.

The conversation died down, Jaskier contemplating the day’s events. His back and arms causing him pain still. Dara might have to pick up the slack, poor lad.

They began settling in for the night, Yennefer set up her tent - smaller than her usual - and with an eye roll she allowed them space to lay their bedrolls’ in the floor of her tent. Her bed was not the luxurious furs Jaskier had once caught a glimpse of but a simple cot. He supposed it must take a lot of magical energy to maintain a tent the size of a huntsman’s cottage.

“I’m really glad you’re not dead,” Dara whispers, as they lay in their bedrolls, facing each other. He’s going for levity and missing, his voice cracking amongst the faux teasing bravado. He’s lost so many people. His parents, the elves who took him in. Jaskier vows not to be another person for Dara to mourn.

“I’m not going anywhere, don’t you worry. And if we do get separated, you know where to go.”

“Lettenhove.”

“Anita will make sure you get everything owed to me when she’s gone, and before that she’ll help you get all my funds stored at Oxenfurt, there’s not much but it’ll keep you going. And Valdo and Priscilla or even Essi will be happy to add to my letters of recommendation to get into Oxenfurt. No doubt they’d even apprentice you themselves.”

He tried to reassure Dara but knew he was making a poor job of it. His voice had gone horribly thick.

His death hadn’t bothered him before - he’d rather had a poetical ideology of it. (Unless in direct danger in which case he very much wanted to live.

If you lived your life with no regrets, then dying wasn’t worth thinking about, was it?

But if he never saw Dara graduate Oxenfurt? Didn’t live to see him beat that scoundrel - Galban, Gareth? - in fair combat? Died before his 18th, 21st, 50th birthdays’, before his wedding day? To never see one of his plays performed - he’d started writing the tragedy of Alec as a ballad, it’s true, but he’d been brainstorming plot points and dramatic devices for 3 weeks now.

Tears ran down both bards’ faces. 

“You _can’t_ die,” Dara said, fiercely.

“Neither can you,” Jaskier sniffed, “I will do everything I can to make sure you live your best life.”

“You both sound ridiculous,” Yennefer sounded a little muffled, “Death is an important part of life-”

“Says the immortal sorceress!” Jaskier says, rolling over to glare at the underside of her cot.

“-and whilst the 2 of you will live long, elven lives-”

“Shut up, Yennefer. Dara, I do not plan on dying soon. If-” he had to stop the lad looking so miserable and pretending not to be anxious, “- If I do, you have my full permission to write the most scathing play about Yennefer of Vengerberg and her clairvoyance abilities. Also be assured that, whilst of course I would visit you, I will spend the rest of my days haunting her and making her life generally unbearable. Understood, Yennefer?”

“Crystal,” she replied drily, “Now go the fuck to sleep, the both of you. Are all bards so ... snot filled?”

“Yes, it’s a course requirement,” Jaskier replied sarcastically and Dara giggled quietly. 

“Now I’m loath am I to admit it, her sorcery-ness is right, we should sleep.”

The snuggle down in their bedrolls. Jaskier starts awake in the middle of the night, the foul mage’s face searing to the back of his eyelids, he sits up a moment.

Yennefer, murmuring in her sleep.

Dara curled up around his pillow.

He’s okay.

They’re okay. Tomorrow the scary – not so scary – sorceress will leave them for her own machinations, the plotting and the cursing of peoples (all of which Jaskier conjectures Yennefer _must_ do in her free time) but right now Jaskier can sleep safe in the knowledge that she’s there to protect him and, well, his son, if anything should go wrong.

He falls back into a restful slumber.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri will be turning up, I swear! (Probably not next chapter though :/ sorry!)
> 
> Please comment and kudos! Find me on tumble @whatkindofnameisvolta


	5. Work and Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glod and Dara rehearse a play. Jaskier's getting old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regards to timeline... uh this takes place *before* the last chapter (before Yennefer) but it makes sense if you can't remember as it isn't really plot relevant (more for my own peace of mind). These *are* technically oneshots within the 'Parallel' universe.

Dara sat in the courtyard of Baron-whatever’s house. Jaskier had mentioned the name but Dara could be excused for forgetting, right? 

His hands were freezing so he tucked them under his armpits.

Glod’d be here soon. He hadn’t seen his friend since the competition and was quite excited to tell him about finding Gareth, the play he was writing about Alec, and, well, anything.

He set out the game of jacks on the upturned barrel he was using for a table.

“Dara!” Glod appeared, wearing a shiny new clasp in his growing beard.

“Cool butterfly!” 

“Thanks. Are those..?” Dara ducked his head to show Glod his newly pierced ears. 

“Wow! My Dad says I can’t get my nose pierced until I’m 35 at least! What did Jaskier say?”

“He just fussed about how clean the jeweller’s equipment was and took me to a healer.”

Dara rolled his eyes fondly, “One of his ex-lovers actually gave me these earrings for the winter solstice, from her collection.”

“That’s weird.” They admired the little silver studs in the shape of turtles for a moment.

“Yeah. Jaskier says she’s eccentric. She gave Jaskier an anklet with a sea-monster on it AND she tried to set me up with her grandson - hey! I’ve written a play about it, d’you want to read it?”

Glod did. They even acted bits out, Dara’s thoughts about jacks forgotten.

~

“Brava!” Jaskier called out as ‘Tomasz’ (Glod) collapses to the floor after being injected by ‘Tatiana’ (Dara). Glod had hammed it up too much for Dara’s liking it was supposed to to be a dramatic scene.

Tomasz, the _real_ Tomasz, had cried for 15 minutes when Tatiana had turned him down. Then he’d taken up a silver smithing apprenticeship. (In the play Dara had written ‘Tomasz’ - he needed to think of good names, people in plays had dramatic names - making a necklace so as to be worthy of ‘Tatiana’ in order to win her love but was later let down again - ‘Tatiana’ had a very impassioned speech about independence that Dara was very proud of).

“Is this the play about Alec?” Jaskier asks.

“Sort of. I’m adding a villain. You don’t think it’s too complicated?’

“Not at all - good day Glod, how’s your Dad? - is, uh, is it a comedy or a tragedy?”

“It’s a Drama!” Dara says, sticking his hands into his pockets, annoyed.

“I see. Of course. Very good projection Glod - have you thought about opera? That was an excellent speech from, was that Tomasz? Dara. Fabulous imagery. The bird metaphors in Tatiana’s speech were very well done, the dying dove - I loved that line.”

Dara tried not to blush, “I thought about making ‘Alec’ the narrator? Is that – would that work?”

“I like the idea of that!” Glod says, “That way ‘Alec’ would be lamenting about his doomed romance with ‘Tomasz’ whilst ‘Tomasz’ in turn-”

“Yes!” Dara interrupts, nodding excitedly, “He’d be confiding in the audience, like the bard’s in songs! He’d be telling the tale-”

“I’ll leave you boys to it…” Jaskier smiles, sticking his hands in his pockets and kicking off the wall, “Remember we start at dusk, Dara.”

“- yeah, okay, and ‘Tatiana’ should have an adventure or something – Jaskier once helped save a dragon I could add that! Though I’m not sure it ‘Tomasz’ _should_ get with ‘Alec’ or if ‘Alec’ should fall for the-”

And Jaskier left them to it.

Glod’s father, Ingmar, was in the kitchen eating a chicken dinner.

“May I -?” Jaskier gestured to the empty chair. Ingmar nodded.

“Glod and Dara are outside. Practicing Theatre.”

“Should be practicing his pipe playing,” Ingmar tutted fondly, “but I am glad your lad and mine are friends. It’s good to make connections when they’re young.”

“How true,” Jaskier said, feeling old. Though, for a half elf he’s still pretty early on in his life, “At Oxenfurt I made connections I rely on to this day.”

“Didn’t think they let elves into Oxenfurt?” Ingmar asks curiously, “Glod told me.”

“Yeah, well, benefits of childhood mutilation I suppose,” Jaskier murmurs, bitterly sarcastic, into his cup of wine.

“I understand. If my wife shaves her beard the humans starts treating her better. They don’t seem to understand that we don’t think of things the way they do.”

Jaskier nodded. A dwarf was a dwarf, humans put roles on genders, pronouns, and it was none of Jaskier’s business to pry into Ingmar’s personal life. He was who he _said_ he was. Jaskier generally didn’t make assumptions about the contents of anyone’s underclothes anyway, whether they be human, dwarf or elf.

“Have you ever thought about the opera?” Jaskier said propping his feet on the table and leaning back in his chair, rocking it on two legs.

“Saw it once. Didn’t like it much. Seemed rather… well at first I thought it was in Elder but it turns out in was in plain Temerian and I just couldn’t understand it. Too fancy.”

“Hm. Well. Glod’s got the voice for it. Very deep and rich.”

“He’ll go far for sure. He’ll be striding up to Baron’s on his own one-day, demanding centre stage at festivals.”

“Are you playing tonight?” Jaskier helped himself to ham and bread.

“Yes, just after you. You’re warming them up and we’re playing once they’re into their cups.”

The door crashed open in the only way it does when adolescents are involved.

“You’ll have it off it’s hinges, lad! And it won’t be me paying for it!” Ingmar said sternly to Glod.

Jaskier tried to look disapproving too.

Dara had his notebook in hand. Water – rain – was dripping from his hair onto the floor. Jaskier absently pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Yes, uh, Ingmar’s right, you shouldn’t slam doors like that,” Jaskier had slammed so many doors in his childhood, adolescence, youth, and, now early, middle age, he couldn’t unhypocritically chastise Dara for something he regularly did. Dara stared just over Jaskier’s shoulder with a very straight face, trying not to laugh. 

“Now, now,” Jaskier started, then, “You should dry out. Don’t want you to catch cold.”

His shoulders had started to cramp in cold weather. He was just glad his knees hadn’t started to go, he’d kept them well-oiled he guessed. He guessed he’d inherited the very human condition of aches and pains and creaking.

Dara mops at his face and ears, their employer for the night is less bigoted than others, it seems, and the name ‘Jaskier’ does open doors. He just had to trust they were the right ones.

“Is there time for a bath?” Dara asks, “And enough water?”

“I’ll get them to send water up.”

“Do we have anymore of the violet soap Lady- uh – Aunt, uh, Anita,” he said self-consciously, “sent us?”

Her misplaced guilt over her lack of relationship with her brother had manifested in sending parcels to the addresses he’d left her. She always signed them off ‘Aunt Anita’.

“Should do. You go up now, I’ll request one and have a quick scrub when you’re done. I actually need to patch my chemise. Ingmar, you don’t happen to have any turquoise thread I could borrow, I’ve ran out?”

“You know what friend? I’m right out of turquoise. Used my last only a week ago,” Ingmar says dryly. Jaskier could have done without the sarcasm.

“Shame. I’ll have to use teal.”

Dara rolled his eyes and went up to their shared quarters. 

Jaskier begged the steward for a bath. It was grudgingly sent up.

He brought his chemise down to the table and repaired it neatly. If he had more time, and embroidery thread, he’d have added a couple of flowers maybe. Instead he sat back to read his sister’s last letter:

“ _Dear Jaskier and Dara._

_ Your friend Priscilla assures me you received the adoption papers at this address, so I am taking the liberty of using this as a primary point of contact. As you friend has a reliable occupation here, she should hopefully know at least where to post your correspondence or hold them for you in trust. Incidentally please return Lettenhove’s copy of the adoption papers at you earliest convenience by secure messenger or by Mr Leifsons & Sons barge service along the Pontar, you can rely on him. _

_ I confess I know little of the life of a travelling bard, but I have endeavoured to tailor my gifts accordingly. Soap, I know can be hard to come by – do not puff up in offence brother, both you and my nephew smelt fine when we met – so I have included enough for a few months at least. As the cold weather is approaching, I also include several recipes to fight off colds. I know you like the cinnamon and ginger tea. Our old nanny Theodora also includes a warm undershirt for Dara – he is lucky not to receive the lurid green Marya’s children will receive this midwinter – I hope it will fit. I guessed the measurements. If it’s a little big he should hopefully grow into it. _

_ I must sign off now if I am to get this parcel upon the next barge. _

_ Please keep out of trouble and I look forward to seeing you in good time, _

_ Your loving sister and Aunt, _

_ Anita _

_ P.S. Priscilla is charming. Is it usual for her to write poems about passing acquaintances?” _

_ ~ _

Jaskier came down from his quick bath to find Dara and Glod playing gwent, Dara using Jaskier’s set.

“Who’s winning?”

“Glod,” Dara grumbles, then, “They’ve started a Scoia'tael set, did you know?”

Jaskier did not, “Well, why not,” he said nervously. The other cards were hardly based upon paragons of virtue but a group of elven bandits, who started that?

“Come on, finish this round. We need to tune up.”

Dara grumbled.

“Mister Jaskier?”

“Hm?” Jaskier says as he straightened Dara’s collar and wiped off missed spots of soap from behind his ear.

“If I wanted to go to Oxenfut would you write me a letter?” Glod asks. 

Oxenfurt wasn’t the most diverse place, but he nodded, “I would. I can’t promise you anything.”

“I want to try this opera thing.”

“Well, in that case…” and Jaskier jotted down the names of several troubadours who might help Glod.

Dusk fell.

“Ready?” Dara asks, arranging his growing hair to camouflage his ears a little. He strummed the first few notes of their first song.

Jaskier grinned at him, “Always.”

Dara grinned back.

And they went to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! Comment and kudos if you want (it does spur me on!)
> 
> I've drawn a (very basic) picture of Anita, here's the link to it on my tumblr if you want to see: https://whatkindofnameisvolta.tumblr.com/post/634528430326743040/jaskiers-sister-anita-from-my 
> 
> (Posting may be irregular in the future as I've just started writing a new fic!)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ whatkindofnameisvolta


	6. Emotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara has two emotional days. Jaskier "dad's".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been an absolute *age*, people!! Some nice father-son bonding here, but also *emotions*, Dara's figuring stuff out. 
> 
> Also I recently rewatched the whole of Four Marks recently and watched the bit with Ciri (rather than just watching the Jaskier, Yennefer, and Dara bits) in the refugee camp, turns out Filavandrel's uprising is only like a year before the fall of Cintra? So there may be some slight inconsistency in regards to Dara's parents. In 'Parallel' I said they'd died in the uprising when Dara was a baby, which turns out not to be the correct timeline, so here they died in another Pogrom.

It was a cool autumn day, and the harvest festival was in full swing.

Dara was shaking like a leaf. He had dressed down, understated but elegant, in grey with silver and teal thread. He had a bonnet, not unlike the one Jaskier sometimes favoured, with a small blue flecked feather sewn in.

This was a BIG moment.

Jaskier nodded at him from his place by the band - a group of local flute and pipe players.

Dara cleared his throat, “Gareth Ombal? I, the bard Dara, challenge you to a contest!”

Gareth jumped from where he was playing conkers with his friends. The friends laughed together and shoved Gareth forward playfully.

“Oh. It’s you.”

Dara played the opening bars of ‘The Wedding and the Wyrm’ as jauntily as he could.

Gareth flushed red, “You! Curse you!”

“D-do you accept my challenge?”

“Well, it’s hardly fair! I haven’t got my dulcimer set up!”

“I will grant you a courtesy of 10 minutes to get ready.”

Dara was shaking, the adrenaline was carrying him forward. Jaskier gave him a thumbs up and beckoned him over. 

“Well done! Now remember eye contact. Wink at the audience when you deliver your insults. If you’re posing a question talk at Gareth, but wave your arms wide like it’s a simple question he can’t answer, okay?”

Dara wasn’t completely sure, but he nodded. Jaskier clapped him on the shoulder.

He rounded on the village green and prepared - tuning up. Gareth had set up his dulcimer.

On a whim Dara went over to Gareth and extended his hand.

Gareth looked surprised and grinned, his freckles creasing in good humour, “May the best musician win!” and they shook hands.

So, after a deep breath to test his lungs, Dara began:

“ _A quiet morn, in sunny Redania._

_ The birds fluttered in peaceful refrain. _

_ The heat of the sun cried the warmth of the day-a _

_ Until a wyrm, most terrible, poured ice on the calm...” _

The slow opening did it’s duty of setting the scene, drawing in the crowd.

He moved onto the main of the song:

“ _The bride was a vision...”_

The audience were spellbound, gasping at all the appropriate moments. Dara introduced the wyrm with a flourish, gesturing towards Gareth, who annoyingly played a jaunty tune of suspense - simultaneously accompanying Dara rather well but also hamming up Dara’s dramatic song.

Dara hid his scowl and carried on.

The wyrm in the story was drowned in milk -rather than being angered by a custard tart - but the wedding party lived happily, the wyrm was vanquished, the villain (the father of the bride) who’d let the wyrm in was cursed, and the bard had been celebrated and rewarded with a kiss from the bride - completely fictional but Jaskier assured him it was a traditional ending.

He ended with a bow to loud applause.

Gareth clapped as well before standing straighter and addressing their audience.

“My good friend Dara tells the tale wondrously, he had clearly spent much time and put a lot of effort into preparing for your lovely selves ... I have not had such a courtesy but will still endeavour to please you.”

That was an insult in progress, if Gareth now played something well, without rehearsal, that would be a blow.

Despite that, Dara was having fun.

Gareth started a song about a boxing match in Velen - turned into an epic, a legendary fight, by his hammers on the strings.

Dara had had the privilege to try playing a dulcimer when they’d stayed with Priscilla - she had a whole room of instruments. He much preferred the mountain dulcimer to the hammered.

The performance ended in a draw, the applause equally as loud for Gareth as it had been for Dara.

“Will we meet again?” Gareth asked, for the audience, “At the spring fair in Aedirn’s capital, perhaps?”

Dara, after a brief glance at Jaskier, nodded and bowed, “Until Vengerberg, then!”

The crowd cheered before dispersing.

“That was excellent!” Jaskier congratulated, swinging an arm around his shoulder, and pulling him into a half-hug. 

The adrenaline was waning. Perhaps Jaskier could sense it because he pulled Dara away from the crowd and down the side of the nearby temple.

Dara promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, okay, I know it can be a bit ... much ...” Jaskier consoled, patting his shoulder as he sobbed.

Dara doesn’t know why he’d burst into tears _then_. He’d been feeling very, very, elated, Jaskier had looked so very proud of him, then...

Dara sniffed.

“Do you think they’d be proud of me?” Dara asked Jaskier haltingly, “My parents?”

“Oh, of course! They couldn’t be disappointed, no one could be, with you. Of course, they’d be proud.”

“But sometimes. I feel so angry... I wanted to _win_ today. And then I didn’t...”

“Hey. It’s not about winning - what _am_ I saying? - but no, contests like these are about _profile_ , building the myth, spreading the stories. _Then at_ an _actual_ competition, when the two of you already have a name and a rivalry, you turn it into a two-horse race, so to speak. With Dara and Gareth there, no one will be taking about, I don’t know, Erik of Ebbing or whoever. But even so, you have the right to be angry. Your life hasn’t been the most ... stable and now you’re starting on your path and-”

Dara knew Jaskier was wildly out depth giving advice, but he was trying.

“Thanks, Jas.”

They sat for a moment. Then:

“Can I, I want to sing about them. The song I wrote.”

“I suspect it’s not a song for events as these-” the fair was still in full swing, an event called ‘tilting the ring’ was in progress, which had gathered a large and noisy crowd, “- but we could go to the cliffs? Or the edge of the wood?”

“Can we - can we just sit. Over there-” Dara gesture toward a crumbling wall.

They sat on it. 

From there they could see the whole valley, the little town they’re in perched atop a small hill.

And Dara sung. He poured his heart out.

~

Exactly 2 weeks, to the day, after the competition was a sad day. No particular reason, just one of those days in which Dara didn’t feel like much of anything. 

They were staying in Novigrad - a little too close to Oxenfurt to be comfortable - at a place called the Kingfisher ( _Not_ named after a song of Jaskier’s). Dara even had been left with the responsibility of entertaining the Kingfisher by himself a few nights whilst Jaskier’s played a brothel called Rosemary and Thyme - the owner being a specific and wealthy fan of Jaskier’s.

(The one-time Dara had gone in to find Jaskier he’d been wide eyed and intrigued by the state of undress of the employees and then been summarily ejected by a panicked Jaskier. Dara had seen it all before, on his travels, as he protested to Jaskier. Jaskier said he’d buy Dara an ‘educational book’ if he wanted to learn about sex (before lamenting at the responsible bore he’d become). The book, which arrived two days later, was clearly sent by a medical student friend of Jaskier’s and was very informative. And dull. No doubt Jaskier had been up to _more_ than looking at Dara’s age. It did beat the very awkward, and overly chummy, panicky, fatherly, ‘chat’ Jaskier tried to have the next day - he had been visibly sweating - wherein Dara had just about _died_ of embarrassment in his chair whilst Jaskier explained about prophylactics and consent.)

But today Dara didn’t feel like getting out of bed.

A maelstrom of moths fluttered gently in his tightening stomach. A phantom hand over his throat. _Wet_ pouring out his nose and clogging his tear ducts.

“Are you getting up, champ?”

Dara nodded but didn’t move.

“Ah. One of those days. We’ll have a lazy day then. Come on, up and bath. I promise that’s all.”

With great effort, and only at the sound of the tavern employees and Jaskier hauling buckets along the corridor, Dara managed to sit up and swing his legs over.

He sat dully as Jaskier supervised bath, set up the screen and started pulling out bottles and soaps out of his bag.

“Come on, up you get,” and very quietly guided Dara up and behind the screen.

“We haven’t tried lemon yet; do you want lemon? Yeah, lemon’s good. Actually-” he turned to the leaving employee, “Can you sent up a pot of lemon tea?”

Mechanically Dara undressed and stepped into the bath. Jaskier collected his clothes and put them aside for laundry. 

“Is it warm enough?”

Dara, ‘hmmed’.

“Glad I spent so long with Geralt, his second language is ‘hmm’s’. His first language is philosophy, gods he can was lyrical when he wants...”

And Dara ... unwinds a little, basking slightly in the monologue. There’s no frantic need to be active, no urgency, he can just _exist_ for a moment.

“- do you want roses on this tunic? I’ll see if I can get the washerwoman to rinse it through with rose soap so it’ll match the pattern... shall I get out your dark green suit out? I think it’s the warmest. I’ll put it by the fire, just in case.”

With heavy limbs Dara washed his hair with the orange scented shampoo they’d been paid with in lieu of coin in the last town they were in.

Then he took up the sponge and washed himself.

Then he basked a bit.

He didn’t realise the water was going cold until Jaskier’s, “Have you drowned?” broke through the nothingness.

“No, I’m getting out,” he found that the towel hanging over the screen was warm. Jaskier passed his clothes over the top. They were warm too. Suddenly he felt ravenous.

“Drink your tea.” Dara accepted the mug with a weak smile.

“Want to talk about it?”

Dara shook his head, not yet at least.

Jaskier ‘hmmed’. Dara sat in the room’s overstuffed armchair. 

Jaskier put a blanket within arm’s reach of Dara.

“I’ll just go get us, well it’ll be breakfast I suppose...” the sun, barely peeking through the curtained window, looked to be over halfway through it’s day’s journey across the sky.

Jaskier came back with a tray. A mug of soup. A roll. Potato. Cheese.

Dara _was_ hungry but the idea of eating wasn’t exactly pleasant. But Jaskier had divided the roll into two and began sprinkling cheese into the mug of soup. It was a warm mug.

It smelt lovely, onion and garlic. Dara took a small, small, sip and then he was off, his stomach awoke. It wasn’t as good as usual, but it did warm up his stomach.

That was nice.

“It. It feels like I’m trapped in my own head. My eyes are a window and I’m just watching my own life ... happen.” He sniffed.

Jaskier smiled sadly, “Not everyday will be like this. But it’s okay to feel like this. You just ... on a day like today, just do 1 thing. Today you had a bath! And I’ll always be here. To make sure tomorrow will be ... okay.”

Dara wanted to ask, ‘promise?’, but felt his voice would break upon speaking.

“Would they _really_ be proud of me? My parents?”

“Yes.”

“I just ... I ... I’m happy,” it sounded so stupid, “But I feel ... I also feel so ungrateful...” he whispered, “They died. And I feel like I should be more grateful...”

He pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s shoulder.

“... what if I don’t want to be a bard?” He said into the cotton of Jaskier’s shoulder.

“What?”

“I love it! I do! And I like performing, I love it and I’m so, so, happy and grateful for all that you’ve done for me and-”

“Okay, breathe! Calm down!! For starters, I will love you no matter what you decide to do, whether it be bard-ing, or metal work, or bar work, lecturing, farrier-ing... anything as long as you’re happy!”

“Really?” Dara felt drained.

“Of course. Look. I know I’m more of an uncle, uh, figure and I never really considered, uh, fatherhood, but I do think of you as my son. So I’ll always be here, if you need ... what do you want to do?”

“I want to write. Remember when we stayed with Priscilla? I loved helping her write that play and I want to be as good as her. I want to write for acting troops like the Foxes. I want to act too, maybe. I’ll still sing, but, but I don’t think it’s forever.”

Jaskier patted his arm.

“I didn’t know I wanted to be a bard until I was 17, when I wrote my first poem. And even then, I do write poetry and textbooks too. I lecture too. You don’t have to be one thing, but for what it’s worth, you’ll be an excellent playwright.”

Dara thought about the parental figures in his life. His parents, who’d died when he was small in an anti elven pogrom. The elders who’d kept a loose eye on him and the other orphans over the years until their death in the uprising only 2 years ago. 

He didn’t have any words. That was a good start.

“Now, eat up. I’ve persuaded the innkeeper to make currant buns. Do you want to play dice, or gwent?”

“Can we just sit. For a moment?” 

“Sure.”

It can’t have been comfortable for Jaskier, perched on the edge of his bed with Dara’s forehead on his shoulder. Even so Jaskier hummed and patted his head soothingly as Dara managed to lull himself into a doze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and kudos! I love your thoughts, especially as I'm making this up as I go along - I may get ideas!!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment & kudos. If anyone has any prompts in this verse please feel free to comment, who know's I may get inspired!
> 
> Also find me on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


End file.
